Protect Me From What I Want
by Mostly Harmless III
Summary: Wayne Manor has windows of every shape, size and dimension. The ones on Bruce's windows just so happen to be larger than the rest. Tonight, the curtains aren't drawn. Clark and Bruce never can seem to get things right. SLASH.


Title: Protect Me (From What I Want)

By: Mostly Harmless

Pairing: Superman/Batman (But not really at all)

Rating: R

Warnings: Sexual situations (het and slash). Not beta-read. Ambiguous continuity. OOC-ness. More of the idea of a fic that could grow up to be a real fic one day than an actual fic. I don't know what that last sentence means.

Protect Me (From What I Want)

Wayne Manor has windows of every shape, size and dimension. The ones on Bruce's windows just so happen to be larger than the rest. Tonight, the curtains aren't drawn.

They should be. He's a public figure—one with many, dangerous secrets—and the tabloids would love to get a shot of this. Not that they'd have such an easy time getting to where I am, parallel to the windows more than thirty feet in the air. And they wouldn't have such an easy time watching as I'm watching—from a distance where they couldn't be spotted by anything less than Waynetech binoculars. After all, I'm not human. Well, in most of the ways that count, I'm not. But sometimes...

Still, there are perks. Like the view.

She's blonde. I'm a little surprised to learn that it's natural after all. I know her name and her movies, but I doubt Bruce does. He doesn't watch movies and maybe I can't blame him. I do a little memory searching and recall that her father is a politician with connections in all the wrong places. I assume the reason why she's laying on her back with her legs spread wide has a lot to do with that instead of her other, obvious charms. I assume, but can't say for sure because if I understood Bruce, I'd pass the technique on to the Justice League and save us all a lot of pain in dealing with the man.

Of course, she's beautiful. I'd place money on passionate, too, judging by her reactions, or maybe that's just Bruce. He can do this to women, make them arch like_ that_ and then claw their nails down his back. The last thing he needs is another set of scratches to go with the scars he already has, but I doubt he even feels it. Did he study this like he studied everything else, to master it and perfect it? How to make love to a woman so that she thinks about, feels, and wants only you?

I know he's not thinking about her. In a few hours, the mask of lies he's wearing now will get covered up by the one that tells the truth and that's where his mind is, already wearing the cowl and merging with the night.

Bruce Wayne always loses to Batman in the end.

I couldn't tell you which one I want more.

Why are the curtains open? Why have they been open the past three times I've come? I can see the blood rising to the surface on his back. I can see the beads of sweat pouring down her body.

She's babbling now and tossing her head from side to side. His rhythm never breaks, but her hips are jerking wildly.

"God, god! Yes!"

I don't know how he does it, how he maintains such control with his lovers. He never goes beyond what they can take, never makes it too much of anything but pleasurable for them. I envy him that. I trust myself in most situations not to go to far and hurt my lovers. But there are times when I can't or, rather, when I _don't think_ I can. Trust myself, I mean. Some things you want too badly to control once you have them.

She comes spectacularly in a way too raw to ever work on film. She clings to him and rides it out with enough noise to embarrass me—and maybe herself, too, if she ever had the chance to hear when she wasn't high on Bruce and what he can do to a woman. When it's over, she flops down like a fish, breathing heavily and looking a little shocked and very pleased.

Bruce courteously rolls them to the side so he's not crushing her. She's too exhausted to notice that he hasn't finished. He pulls out gently, smoothes her hair and kisses her temple. She falls asleep muttering endearments and praise that he either doesn't hear or chooses not to acknowledge.

After a moment, when she's sleeping soundly, he stands, gloriously nude and damaged; moves silently across the carpeting, tosses on a robe and belts it. Then he's shutting off the lights, closing the door, and prowling through the mansion. I lose track of him inside the massive building, even with my x-ray vision. I scan down, down, following the path to the Batcave, but there's not a trace of him. I feel a tiny surge of panic that he's gotten faster as he's gotten older and somehow slipped out without my noticing. Already dressed and ready for his endless battle, leaving Alfred to take care of the blonde in the morning. I'm just to the point of disappointment with him for treating a lady that way, when he suddenly appears on a balcony a fair distance from where he left sleeping beauty. I'd been looking the wrong way, which goes to show you that advanced everything can't always take up the slack for bad judgment.

He leans on the railing and the wind catches his dark hair and I'm reminded of the actor Cary Grant who exemplified charm, grace, and a deadly beauty. And just like Grant had, Bruce leads a double life. But Grant had been torn between his glamorous screen persona and what he truly was—just a shy, awkward boy named Archie. Bruce's trouble is nothing quite so simple.

Still, he looks more like a movie star than any man I've ever met. At the moment, if Bruce smoked at all, a fine, expensive cigar would not be out of place.

Instead of lighting up to look debonair, he stares straight at me and says, "Did you get what you came for, Clark?"

And, no, I have no idea how he did that. I have supervision; it's not like my nose was pressed to the window or anything. I gave him his space, if not his privacy. It's just that, well, he's Batman which means I'm well and truly caught and don't mind so much, actually.

I swoop in and enjoy staying high enough so that he has to look up at me if he wants to see my face because there should be _some _manner of equality in our relationship, but he won't bite. He keeps his eyes trained on the well-tended property that had once belonged to his father.

"Good evening, Bruce," I say, not answering his question.

"I don't like repeating myself," he says darkly. It's strange hearing the Batman's voice come from a face that should be charming starlets, but it only proves he's not acting now. This _is_ Bruce and maybe I'm lucky to be one of the few who knows him like this, but at times like this I just feel like punching him.

I'm still smiling, but I don't want to be. "I know you don't."

"So answer the question."

I land gently on the balcony just to have something to do. And Lois always says I'm as honest as the day is long, which is why I answer like I do.

"The answer is no," I say. "But it will have to do."

"You're a coward," he says simply and still won't look at me. And that hurt.

"You don't understand anything," is my reply and I mean every word of it. The World's Greatest Detective or not, there are experiences and situations that will always be beyond his ability to truly _feel_, if not his ability to comprehend. I could try to explain, but I'd just insult him. Imagine, I'd have to say, wanting to caress a statue made of glass when you're finger can crush a mountain. No, he wouldn't like that at all.

"I understand that you've got a bird's eye view of my sex life," he says and this time he does look at me, which hurts even more because his eyes accuse me and I deserve it. "That you have for quite awhile," he continues. "All I can say is that I hope you get what you want out of it."

"Is that why you left the curtains open?"

He pauses. Sometimes I think he underestimates me as much as I sometimes underestimate him. He forgets my intelligence thinking about my strength. It's the other way around for me.

"What would you do if I closed them? Look anyway?"

And he knows I would because I have before so how do I answer that? I touch down behind him. "I...I'll stop. It bothers you so I'll stop."

He turns to face me, leans casually against the balcony and crosses his arms across his chest and it should look contrived but Bruce can make anything look smooth. Except, I was right and this isn't really Bruce anymore and I'm so confused trying to tell the different versions of the man apart. He doesn't say anything as if he's waiting for the monologue he knows I've got stashed in my head. I give in.

"It's just that...look, I know things have been awkward between us lately. Or...that things have been awkward between us since the beginning, but we can both put forth a little effort to turn things around. We can make a fresh start. I consider you a friend and an ally. I don't want something we can't have to ruin the valuable things we already do."

And that sounded just as bad out loud as it had in my head. Bruce agrees, apparently, because the expression on his face could kill daisies.

He sighs and it has a final, conversation-ending quality to it. A dismissal. "I'm going inside, Clark. You do what you want. You keep on coming by and I'll keep leaving the curtains open and we'll both pretend that the other doesn't know. You have a good night and give me a warning when you finally decide to grow a spine." Now he's turning and walking back in and I haven't even said half of what I want.

I'll be damned if I let him get away with this.

Even if he is the Batman, he'll never be faster than me. I grab his arm, and whirl him back around to face me. "You don't understand," I say. "I could break you."

He snatches his arm away and I let him. "Then maybe," he growls, "you should have done something about this a long time ago so it wouldn't be to the point now where you can't control yourself."

And he's right. But I had my reasons. I used to think it would get better—things always do. I used to think it was just friendship taking on a strange form. So I waited and waited for it to get better and instead it has worsened so that now I'm afraid of myself around him.

"Maybe you're right," I admit and back up. "I don't know what to do."

"Deal with it," he says and sometimes I really do wonder why I tolerate him.

I bow my head. Just like the rest of the mansion, even the balcony is spotless. I wonder if a competent psychiatrist is helping Alfred with his OCD.

But looking away from Bruce doesn't erase the presence of the man, the fact that he could be a foot shorter than every superpowered being in the room and still draw every eye by radiating confidence and strength. There's also all the black he tends to wear. That catches eyes.

"It's only going to get worse," I say and notice suddenly that I'm stroking his arm through the fabric of his robe. "I wonder what you taste like."

His reaction isn't visible, but I can hear his heart voice his panic for him. It speeds so quickly I feel my own heart race to match it. Mine is excitement, but his is uncommon fear. I wonder if he's afraid because I'm not human—because I'm stronger than him and he can't trust me not to go too far—or if he's afraid because Batman doesn't get close to people in the way that this could be. Years and years of working together means that even a kiss wouldn't be just a kiss. There would be strings and connections from memories of all the times before when we should have been kissing tangling everything up and complicating things. And there would be the difficulties of hiding everything from everyone. Complications, yes, but they're worth it to me, though he'd never take such a risk. And he called _me_ a coward.

"I don't get involved with teammates," he says, but he doesn't stop me from touching him. My hand is at his shoulder now, anticipating making a b-line for his soft, black hair. I can feel the salt on his skin leftover from sex with that woman.

"Is that why Dick isn't—"

"Leave Nightwing out of this."

And that was a nerve I should have seen coming a mile away so that I wouldn't hit it, but it's too late now. "Listen, sorry. I shouldn't have said anything about that. It's just…I know how he feels about you. I understand how he feels about you." I give a little self-depreciating laugh, which sounds hollow and false. "I mean, I want just about the same thing that he does."

"Just about?"

And I'm closer—too close for him and not nearly close enough for me. I can smell the sex on him and the frustration and more.

"Yeah," I say. "The difference is that I don't worship you."

And that makes him pull away, but I've had enough. He's up against the expensive brickwork of his house before he knows it and his eyes are narrowed, which is just as intimidating without the mask; Bruce has darkness in his soul no amount of clever acting can hide. And with my lips smashed to his, I imagine I can taste it. The mellow trill of sorrow, the heavy aftertaste of manipulation. I'm kissing him like I'll never get to do it again and he couldn't stop me from stabbing my tongue into his mouth even if he tried. He isn't kissing me back, but he isn't struggling either. And part of me knows that he kissed that blonde tonight and that I should stop for that reason alone. I don't stop. Instead, I angle in for more and there's saliva running down our chins, which shouldn't be so arousing, but is.

I'm moaning into his throat and my tongue is massaging his, mimicking the rhythm two bodies make when they're joined. Like we should be. Like maybe we already are, even if it's not in the ways that will scratch a ten-year itch.

I haven't had enough, but I'm sure he can't breathe, so I stop. I squeeze my eyes shut and rest my forehead against his. And I'm panting hot breaths against his mouth.

His lips are bruised and I'm sure he'll have purple marks on his arms from where I held him against the wall. And _this_ is why I was afraid. Now that he's in my arms, I don't want to end this. Every fantasy I've ever had is fighting to become reality first. I take a step back and let my hands fall before I break his arms.

"This isn't worship," I say. "This is something much, much worse."

He touches his swollen lower lip, testing the damage. "Are you just trying to prove my point? If you can't even kiss me without losing control..." he trails off and lets the rest hang because he doesn't have to say more.

I take another step back when the fantasies start trying to force me forward again. To pick up where I left off with him up against a wall and helpless to stop me.

"No, I'm trying to make you understand," I say.

"Clark, what makes you think I didn't already?"

"I mean..._really_ understand. Not just the idea of it, but...more. You can't...no, you shouldn't tempt me, Bruce."

"You don't make much sense for someone who writes articles for a living. Even if I didn't do a thing you'd probably still behave this way. You're like a child sometimes. You don't know when to leave things alone."

I can feel the heat in my gaze, the anger boiling up. "I'm the child? You're the one living in this fantasy world where you do what you want without consequences and where you don't acknowledge the friendships you make and the bonds you forge. You want to pretend like you don't have any connections, that you're a solitary figure—a legend with no strings attached. But then you surround yourself with a huge network of hangers-on and they'd all die for you and you'd be willing to let them."

"I thought this was about you and me."

"It is," I say and run a hand through my hair in frustration. "It is but that's not all. It's about how you treat the people that care about you. It's about how I'm supposed to work with you now."

"What's different now?"

"I just kissed you."

"So?"

"So I want to do it again."

He shrugs his shoulders, all Cary Grant and timeless, and turns his back on me. It's something he's uncommonly good at. "Then nothing's really changed, has it?"

I try for a laugh. "No, I guess not. So now what do we do?"

"Get yourself together, Clark," is all he says over his shoulder in the voice of a billionaire playboy.

I raise an eyebrow at him even though he can't see it. "Is that an invitation?" And, God, I want it to be. But he's already back inside Wayne Manor and walking further and further away from me. He's good at that, too.

Still, he doesn't close the curtains, and I don't leave. Like he said, nothing's changed. He stands in the dark room, looking down at her for several minutes and then turns away. This time, he does go to the cave and I know he won't return until daybreak with more bruises and maybe a broken bone or two.

Nothing changes.

I'm still Clark and he's still...

Suddenly, I realize that the fact that I don't know how to end that sentence is exactly why he's sleeping with the blonde and I'm going back to Metropolis with only a stolen kiss and no promise of a repeat to show for my trouble.

He's still just _him_, and that's only half the problem but more than enough of the answer on most days. And even if today wasn't one of those, there's always tomorrow.

The End


End file.
